


This New Day

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 13:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12410796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Molly was capable of great patience, particularly where Sherlock was concerned, but she very much hoped he would be willing to explain things to her in the cool light of this new day...





	This New Day

**Author's Note:**

> A bit more of the aftermath of that phone call...
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When Molly woke again, several hours later, Sherlock was sound asleep, his embrace now slack, his curls mussed, his face peaceful and far younger, save for the scant, scruffy reddish-brown shadow of his beard. The urge to kiss him was strong, it seemed that every feature of that beloved countenance called to her: cheek, nose, brow; the prickly jawline; his lips, slightly parted as he breathed, deep and even. But she resisted. He needed to rest as long as possible. The previous day had been full of trauma, and she feared those coming would not be easy for him either, in spite of the hope of happiness he had once again awakened in her.

Cautiously, she slid from his arms, and then with silent stealth began to slip away. But true to form, he woke. “Molly?” he mumbled, his brows twitching together.

She darted in as he began to rouse himself and kissed him, gently, on his lips, a blush rising at her daring. She said softly, “Have to use the loo.”  

And his brow smoothed. He gave a sleepy smile and his eyes closed again.

 _Excellent!_ she thought, and went to use the en suite, taking the time to wash her face and run a brush through her hair. She was even more pleased with herself when she reentered the bedroom and saw that once again he was deep in slumber.

Sleep was a great healer, and it was sometimes most elusive for the great Sherlock Holmes, a fact of which she’d recently been forcibly reminded. After Culverton Smith’s arrest, Sherlock’s friends had taken it in turns to watch over him, since he’d abandoned the hospital as soon as he could stand unaided, and flatly refused to go to a rehabilitation facility. The subsequent weeks had been quite challenging for everyone involved, and particularly for Molly who had taken the night watch, often Sherlock’s most difficult hours. She had endured much, particularly at first. Ill temper, whining, miles and miles of traipsing the dark streets of London; badgering or coaxing (whatever worked) to get him to eat decently. She had patiently wiped the sweat from his brow, held him shaking in her arms more than once, dried his tears of remorse or self-pity, and distracted him as best she could at all points. It had become easier after the first couple of weeks, but even now she felt that she was still recovering from those often very long nights. And though Sherlock had, for some weeks now, been taking great care to show them all that he was now back on an even keel, she was fairly certain it was only his strength of will that enabled him to do so consistently.

And now this. A mad, murderous sister? That he hadn’t known about? And she still had little idea of what had actually occurred in their encounter with the woman.

Molly was capable of great patience, particularly where Sherlock was concerned, but she very much hoped he would be willing to explain things to her in the cool light of this new day.   

She went downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, then stared into her refrigerator, trying to decide what to offer him for breakfast when he should wake. An omelet, she thought. He liked her omelets. Perhaps with cheddar cheese and a few slices of glazed apple, and some bacon, and toast with marmalade --  she had some good brioche left from the previous weekend, when she’d purchased it to make eggy bread for John and little Rosie.

Dear Rosie! And John -- she was suddenly seized with a need to know how _he_ was faring -- Sherlock had said John had been trapped in an old well for several hours on the old, abandoned Holmes family estate.

A family estate. Heavens. She’d known Sherlock sprang from a posh background, but that seemed a bit much, compared to her own modest, very middle class upbringing. Success had come to her through dogged perseverance and the good fortune to qualify for scholarships, but it seemed as though it was Sherlock’s _birthright_ \-- which, admittedly, she had always realized, in a vague fashion. The imminent reality of it might soon affect her in a number of ways, however, and that worried her a bit -- though, of course, his parents had seemed very kind, not at all standoffish, when she had met them after his “fall”. They had wanted to meet her, since she had had so much to do with the success of “Lazarus”, and Mycroft had driven her up to their home outside Cambridge to do so. The visit had gone some way toward easing her grief at his departure, and the circumstances surrounding it.

Her mobile was still on the coffee table, where she had left it the previous evening. But Sherlock’s Belstaff was draped over the sofa nearby, and as she walked in she noticed that his own mobile was buzzing away in the coat’s pocket. She hesitated for only a half second before retrieving it. It had stopped buzzing by the time she had it in her hand, and was locked besides, but he’d given her the code early on in his latest recovery, since most of the time he’d been disinclined to answer it himself. _His Girl Friday_ , she thought with a grim smile.

She quickly entered the code and saw that there were two missed calls, both from Mycroft. She frowned, wondering if Sherlock would be willing to call his brother back. He usually resisted doing so, but with everything that had happened…

But she would not wake him. She put his mobile in one pocket of her dressing gown, and carried her own back to the kitchen to call John, putting it on speaker so she could put tea together at the same time.

John answered quickly. “Hello? Molly?”

“John, how are you? Are you alright?”

“Better than a few hours ago by a long way. Did Sherlock tell you any of it? How is he?”

“He’s still sleeping. He hasn’t told me much, yet, though he did tell me you were stuck in a well, and by a sister he didn’t know he had?”

“Yeah,” John said, slowly. “She… uh… she put him through these tests she’d devised. Pretty horrible, most of it. Five people killed before… well… before he made that call to you.”

She stood there frozen for a moment. Then managed to ask, “Was… was that call one of the tests? Were you _there?_ ”

There was a pause. Then, “Molly, I think I’d better let him explain what was going on.”

“John,” she said, firmly, “there were _four cameras_ found in my house. Were you there when he made that call? And...  and did you...“

He sighed. “We were both there, Molly. Me and… Mycroft. Saw the whole bloody thing. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, replaying the scene in light of this new information. She wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

“Molly, you have to hold it together,” John said, very worried. “For Sherlock’s sake -- and your own. I swear… if you could have seen what it did to him...”

She gave a rather hysterical laugh. _What it had done to_ _him_ _?_

But John went on. “Molly, ask him about the coffin. I mean… God, if this doesn’t put him back on the drugs, nothing will. Look, he was telling you the truth. I would swear to it, on anything you can name--”

And then the phone was snatched off the counter and Sherlock was saying in a steely voice, “Yes, John, that will be all for now.”

Molly, had yelped in surprise and backed away a couple of steps, and now heard John’s tinny, “ _Sherlock?!_ ” just before the man himself disconnected the call with the jab of a long finger and a look that would have felled the doctor, had he actually been present. Then he turned to her, his eyes full of renewed pain.

“Oh, God,” she said, her voice breaking. “Sherlock… _I’m so sorry!_ ”

The pain turned to shock. “ _You’re_ sorry? What do _you_ have to be sorry about? It was _me_ , just as it always is!”

“No! No!” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have made you say it! I should have _known_ … known something was _wrong!_ ” And she gave a hitching sob and tried to turn away.

But he wouldn’t let her.

She found herself pulled into his embrace and held tight against him, and she couldn’t help it, she fisted the soft material of his t-shirt and pressed her face against his chest, and wept. But his hand was in her hair again, and he was kissing her forehead and saying in between, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I meant it, Molly, I swear I did, not the first time, perhaps, but the second, God, it was like a bloody bolt of lightning, shattering my stupid… I swear to you! And I was so afraid… so afraid you would _hate_ me…”

“Hate you?!” she cried, pushing away from him and looking up at him, outraged, as well as hideously tear-ravaged again, she knew it even without a mirror to hand, and she didn’t care. She grabbed at him, at his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

He gave a shocked chuff of laughter, but responded with alacrity, then finding the position a strain he grabbed her up and carried her into the living room, to the sofa, laid her down and half fell upon her. It was awkward, and messy, and fierce, and the feel of his arms and shoulders under her hands, the muscles of his back, the taste of him, the delicious weight of him as he bore her down into the cushions was everything her heart had ever desired.

After a while, he moved a bit and took her wrists in his hands and pressed them into the cushion, one on either side of her head, and looked down at her, panting. “This was… _not…_ how I envisioned doing this. So you don’t hate me?”

She snarled, “You, Sherlock Holmes, are an _idiot!_ ”

And he laughed. “I know.” He settled down over her, loosening his grip on her wrists. “But you love me anyway?”

“Oh my God!” she said, with an epic roll of her eyes. “Of course I do! _Stupid!_ ”

He kissed her again, to her immense satisfaction, smiling at the same time, and she really could not help returning the smile. It was pretty much the best kiss in the history of kisses.

It was difficult to say where it might have ended (well, not _that_ difficult) but after a bit the left pocket of her crushed dressing gown began to buzz and vibrate.

“What’s that?” he demanded, offended at the interruption.

“Probably Mycroft, again. He called twice before.”

It was Sherlock’s turn for an eyeroll. “Of course he did. Bloody hell. I suppose I should see how he’s doing. He was a bit traumatized by the whole debacle yesterday.”

“I expect he was,” Molly said. Her joy faded somewhat, remembering. “John said there were five people killed. Is that true?”

“Yes.” He frowned, and then kissed her forehead lightly.

“And… he said something about a coffin?”

And at that, he scowled. “Bloody John.”

“I don’t think he meant to tell me that much. It just sort of… came out.”

“Hmm. I daresay. It always does, doesn’t it? I mean, look at his bloody blog!”

She started to chuckle, then stifled it. “Not really funny, this,” she said apologetically.

“It _is_ a natural human reaction in times of stress, however, no matter how serious.” He kissed her lips, gently, lingeringly.

When he was finished ( _Too soon! Too soon!_ ) she said, “I love you, you know.”

“Yes. And I love you, too. Just as I said.”

She said in wonder, “And… that’s when you realized it?”

He sighed. “No. I’ve known it for a long time, I believe. But I thought -- idiot that I am -- that by not telling you, or acting upon it in any way -- well, _almost_ any way -- that I was keeping you safe.” He frowned and added, thoughtfully, “Actually, I think it _did_ work for a while. I don’t think Eurus knew about you until that day you brought the ambulance for me. To John’s therapist’s. _That_ was Eurus.”

She stared. “Eurus… is that your sister’s name? And she was John’s therapist?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then said, “There’s a lot to tell you.”

“Yes!” she agreed.

“Can we.. go back to bed? It’s easier to talk there. And… maybe we could reopen the discussion about getting a dog. Afterwards. Something to look forward to?”

She really could not help chuckling at that, but she also said, “No. I’m going to fix you breakfast first. When did you last eat anything?”

He looked first aggrieved, and then puzzled as he thought back. “I had some tea and a couple of biscuits yesterday. Before Mycroft came, and my flat got blown up. That was Eurus, too, by the way.”

Molly shook her head. “If I didn’t love you so much I would be having second thoughts about getting involved with you.”

Sherlock nodded with a grimace. “She’s a genius. An evil genius.”

“I suppose that’s why she and Jim got on so well?”

“I’m afraid so. For all of five minutes, from what Mycroft said. That’s all it took.”

He looked so sad that Molly kissed him again, and then said, against his lips, “Never mind, for now. We’ll be alright. Don’t you think so?”

And he began to smile again, a crooked smile, but genuine, lighting his eyes. “I do. I really do,” he said with conviction, and rubbed his nose against hers.

 

~.~


End file.
